For our vanity is such that we hold our own characters immutable, and we are slow to acknowledge that they have changed, even for the better.

Death destroys a man, but the idea of death saves him.

Unless we remember we cannot understand.

They cared for no one, they were outside humanity, and death, had it come, would only have continued their pursuit of a retreating horizon.

There is something majestic in the bad taste of Italy.

I never could get on with representative individuals but people who existed on their own account and with whom it might therefore be possible to be friends.

Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way.